


Green, Black, and Blue are the Colors of the Sky

by synchronysymphony



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (they're kids), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bugs, Elementary School, Friendship, Gen, combeferre likes bugs, fantine and jean valjean are the principals of the school, mentions of bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8474053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronysymphony/pseuds/synchronysymphony
Summary: Imagine the Leader Trio– but as dorky little kids.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Nabokov (Father's Butterflies and Speak Memory), because the idea of a baby Combeferre running around with a butterfly net is just too precious to me.   
> (title from Butterfly by Smile DK because I have no shame)  
> tw: mentions of bullying! Felix Tholomyes is in here.

Combeferre pushes open the kitchen door, channeling his inner fruit bat and moving stealthily, quietly, past the shoe rack, past the key hooks, almost up to the counter. He’s almost there. If he can just make it past the living room, he can get upstairs before anyone sees him, and he can–

“Combeferre!”

Oh, no. Combeferre straightens up guiltily. “Hi, Mom.”

“What in the world are you doing home so late? You didn’t call or anything! I was thinking… wait.” Combeferre’s mom trails off, comes closer. “What happened to your eye?”

“I… fell?”

“Uh-uh. Come on.” Without another word, she grabs him by the arm and pulls him off towards the bathroom, heedless of his wiggling. Once there, she sits him down on the edge of the bathtub, and pulls out the first-aid kit. “So, who was it this time?”

Combeferre doesn’t really want to say– it feels like tattling. But he knows his mom will get it out of him somehow or another, so he may as well just go ahead. “Felix Tholomyes,” he says. “And his friends.”

“Those bullies again? My goodness! You’d think these high school boys could find something better to do with their time than pick on fourth-graders. I ought to– sit still, Combeferre!”

“But it doesn’t really hurt,” Combeferre protests. “It’s fine, really. Can’t I just go outside?”

“Why do you want to go outside? You just got home!”

“I want to catch some more lepidopterae,” Combeferre says, trying to impart his statement with all the solemnity he can muster. His mom doesn’t look impressed.

“Sweetie, it’s late, and I know for a fact that you have a math quiz tomorrow. No more going out tonight until you eat dinner and finish your homework.”

“But it’ll be dark by then!”

“Okay, tell you what.” His mom gets down on one knee to level her gaze with his. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the park, right after school. And you can stay there as long as you like. But tonight you have to get your homework done. All right?”

Tomorrow seems so far away, especially since school has to happen first. But Combeferre has always been one to know when to cut his losses, so he nods resignedly. 

“All right.”

“Good.” Combeferre’s mom looks at him seriously for a minute more. Then, she smiles, warm and kind as she can be, and kisses him on the forehead. “I’m sorry, honey, truly I am. But it’ll get better. I promise.”

Combeferre tries to smile and nod, but he finds it hard to believe her. After all, what do grown-ups know about life in elementary school?

//

The day passes all too slowly. Combeferre tries (and fails) to avoid his classmates as usual, ducking into the library as soon as lunch comes around, so he can hide behind the tallest bookshelves in the back and read. He’s working his way through an old electrical wiring manual that he found on the curb outside the bus loop, and most of it’s a little hard to understand, but it’s fascinating. How did anyone ever figure out how to make a circuit?

Ms. Hucheloup, the kindly middle-aged librarian who seems to regard Combeferre as the son she never had, doesn’t try to talk to him, seeing that it’s one of those days, but towards the end of lunch, she pads over and puts an apple and a plastic-wrapped cookie into his hand.

“You need to eat,” she says. “You’re getting thin, dearie.”

“It’s my metabolism,” Combeferre protests, but he keeps the apple and the cookie anyway. It’ll give him more glucose, and then he can do his best to catch moths in the park today.

Ms. Hucheloup chuckles at him and ruffles his hair, before returning to her game of Solitaire. She knows when to talk, and when to leave people alone, and that’s one of the many reasons Combeferre loves her. He returns to his manual, silently counting down the minutes until school will be over and he can go.

—

When the sixth-period bell rings, Combeferre is so relieved that he temporarily forgets where he is, and stands up too quickly from his seat. Immediately, the kids around him turn like sharks scenting fresh blood.

“Aww, hey,” sneers one, a tall, pasty boy named Jean. “Is someone in a hurry to go home?”

“I think he misses his mommy,” adds his friend Albert in a high-pitched singsong.

Too quickly, they form a ring, blocking all possible exit. Combeferre tries desperately to ignore them, pretending he’s lingering by his seat for no other reason than pure carelessness. He knows it’s not working, and he’s grimly trying to resign himself to more unpleasantness, when there comes a warbling cry from the doorway.

“Pizza!”

“Huh?” Jean straightens up. There’s nothing he likes more than pizza. He sniffs around, then nudges Albert in the ribs. “Didja say…?”

“That’s right!” 

Combeferre recognizes that voice, now. It’s Courfeyrac, one of the more boisterous kids in his class. He’s mischievous and fun, everything that Combeferre isn’t, and even if he’s never taken active part in bullying him, he hasn’t exactly volunteered to be his friend, either. He doesn’t know how he feels about him, honestly, but that’s beside the point. Right now, wittingly, or unwittingly, he’s provided a perfect escape hatch.

Combeferre ducks past Jean with practiced speed, wedging himself past the desks and into the hall, where he can make a clean break for it. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Courfeyrac looking at him, but now’s not the time for that. He races down the hall and out the door, ready to forget his awful day and delve into beautiful, beautiful biology.

—

Combeferre’s mom is a woman of her word, and as soon as he’s put away his backpack and gotten changed into play clothes, she grabs her purse and keys and drives him to the park. There, she sits down on a nearby bench, pulls out a book, and waves him on his way. “Go on. Be safe. And catch a lot of bugs for me.”

“I will!”

Combeferre scampers down the path, bug-catching kit in hand. He’s ready to make his contributions to the world of science.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s managed to catch a couple ladybugs and a cabbage butterfly, and they’re all lovely specimens, but they’re as common as grass, and he wants something more interesting. So he ventures a little further away from his mom (now caught up in conversation with two other women), down the path to the playground. It’s a sandy area, perfect for beetles. Maybe he’ll be able to find some here. Finding a perfect spot, he settles down to search, when a shrill scream breaks the stillness of the air.

“No! Go away, you meanie!”

Combeferre knows those words very well. He’s said them himself, numerous times. He’d bet anything that whoever just uttered them is someone with whom he could sympathize very well. He straightens up and clears the corner of the path to see what’s going on. He might be about to speak, but before he can, an awful sight meets his eyes.

There, standing defiantly, hands on hips, is a tiny rosy-cheeked cherub with huge blue eyes and hair like spun sugar (if sugar were golden-blond and magnificently curled). Even his little white shoes are spotless and perfectly tied. He looks like a cake-topper, but that’s not why Combeferre stops, pulled up short. No, he stops because this little dolly is facing not one, not two, but _three_ of Combeferre’s worst enemies– Felix Tholomyes and friends.

“Look at him,” snorts Felix. “Thinks he’s pretty smart, huh. Little savant.” He pronounces it _save-ent_. His friends cackle, obviously thinking this the height of wit, and reach out to grab. 

“C’mere, kid.”

“Go to hell, you hideous troglodyte!” screams the little boy, then darts forward, quick as lightning, and bites Felix on the arm.

Combeferre has to clap a hand over his own mouth to keep from laughing in pure delight. He’s never seen anyone like this feisty little fluffball, and he’s in awe. The kid can’t be any more than six, and here he is, standing up to three 18-year-old muscle-heads without fear. It’s amazing. 

Meanwhile, Felix is howling in agony, and his friends seem torn between indignation and hilarity. The little boy takes advantage of the confusion to sneak in and stomp on one of their feet, hard.

“Take that!”

There’s no telling what would happen– certainly, Combeferre doesn’t want to know– but at this moment, an interruption comes in the form of a startlingly tall and beautiful blonde woman, who comes marching over with all the fires of hell in her eyes.

“What’s going on here?”

“Oh. Uh.” Felix looks at her, stupefied. “What?”

“Are you bothering my son again?”

“Um?”

The woman sighs and turns away, apparently assuming (correctly) that she’s not going to get anything reasonable out of him. She puts a hand on the little boy’s shining blond head.

“Enjolras, are you all right?”

Little Enjolras beams up at her, the very picture of sweet, genuine innocence. “I’m okay!”

“Good, now–”

“So let’s take these mouth-breathing assgoblins to court!”

“Enjolras! Language!” 

“Fine. Buttgoblins.”

The woman looks like she’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Let’s go,” she says. “We have places to be.”

Enjolras takes her hand and starts to follow her away, but not before turning around to stick out his tongue at Felix, and make a shockingly rude gesture. His mom doesn’t see it, or maybe she pretends not to, but Felix and the others look outraged and offended.

“Didja see that?”

“Man! That’s one fucked up kid!”

They groan at each other, and amble away, fortunately in the opposite direction to where Combeferre is standing. When he’s sure they’re gone, Combeferre comes out of hiding and slowly makes his way back to his mom, thinking deeply about what he just saw.

He’s proud of little Enjolras, yes; he couldn’t _not_ be, not when the child is capable of holding his own against three grown men, triple his age and four times his size. That’s a feat worth recognizing. But, Combeferre has to admit that he feels a sour tinge at the back of his throat and an uneasy sort of unsettled queasiness in his stomach, like the time he drank bad milk for science. How is it that this delicate little child can be so brave while he, wise and mature fourth-grader, is living his life in fear, cowering away from everyone around him? It shouldn’t be this way. He should be better. What’s he doing with his life, anyway?

He’s very quiet on the way home. When his mom asks him brightly what he caught, he can’t even remember, and just shrugs. She looks at him too keenly, but doesn’t say anything else about it, and instead changes the topic to what they should have for dinner. And, when they get out of the car, he jumps out and runs around to hug her. She’s really the best mom in the world.

—

Things settle down a bit at school, in part because Combeferre keeps his head down and avoids everyone, and in part because Felix is out sick for a couple of days. But on Thursday, Combeferre comes home with another black eye. It doesn’t hurt, but it looks bad enough that his parents sit him down and demand to know exactly what’s been going on.

“Is it those boys again?” his mom wants to know.

“Maybe.”

“Are they trying to get you to carry anything for them?” asks his dad. “Some weird-looking green leaves, for example, like oregano…”

“I know what marijuana is, Dad. And no.”

His dad harumphs. “Good. Because like I always say, it’s better to be the dealer than the wheeler, know what I’m saying?”

“Dear!” Combeferre’s mom socks him on the arm. He smiles goofily at her.

“Just saying, sweetheart.”

She frowns for a second, trying to hold her composure, but finally smiles back, and leans in to kiss him on the nose. “You’re such a stooge.”

“And you’re a Mary Jane.”

Combeferre wonders why grown-ups are so weird. _He’s_ never going to start acting like that. Not even if he knew anyone who liked him, which he doesn’t, and probably never will, if things continue the way they have been. As if noticing his sudden melancholy, his parents turn back to him in synchrony. 

“So tell me, son,” says his mom. “What’s going on?”

Eventually, they get the whole story out. Combeferre reluctantly tells them how he’s disliked by practically everyone in his class, and how they all make fun of him and call him Bug Boy and tape mean pictures on his locker. He tries to be calm about it, but by the time he’s finished, he’s sniffling. It’s really hard not to cry, sometimes, even though he’s big now, and isn’t supposed to.

“I’m the only one who doesn’t have any friends,” he says. “Even Weird Marius has people to eat lunch with! I’m just a loser. I’m Bug Boy.”

His dad looks intrigued for a second. “Who’s Weird Marius–? No, never mind. Listen, kiddo. You’re not a loser. Everyone’s got their ups and downs, you know?”

“In high school, I had no friends until my junior year,” adds his mom, much to his surprise. She’s such a social butterfly; it seems like she should have always been popular. But his dad nods.

“It’s true. I was there.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Okay, I wasn’t. But she’s right, Combeferre. Not everyone has friends. Some people go whole days without talking to anyone. But that doesn’t make them losers.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not at all. You don’t think your mom’s a loser, do you?”

“Think carefully,” says his mom, but she’s smiling. She puts her hand on his arm. “Your dad’s got a point. Think about it. What if there was a man who lived in the woods, because his parents, renowned cartologists, had died when he was young? And he never talked to a single person, because there weren’t any. Would he be a loser, just because he didn’t have friends?”

Combeferre considers it. “No. I don’t– no.”

“Right. Why?”

“Because, because… he can’t help it. He lives in the jungle.”

“Exactly. He’s a person, and that makes him important. And maybe he doesn’t have the best living situation– I don’t think it would be very fun to live in the jungle, do you? But he’s not a loser. And neither are you.”

“But, but,” Combeferre flounders. He wants to believe this, so badly. But he’s not quite there yet. “But Mom. I’m Bug Boy.”

“Yes, you are. You’re my precious little Bug Boy. And that’s a good thing.”

“It is,” agrees his dad. “How many other nine-year-olds can diagram a moth from memory?”

“Maybe a lot?”

“Maybe. But what matters is that you can. You’re so smart, Combeferre, such a brilliant boy, and you’re going to grow up to be a brilliant man. And even more importantly than that, you have a kind heart. That’s the most important thing there is.”

Combeferre wrinkles his nose. “But isn’t it a bad thing to be Bug Boy, though? Everyone says it like it is.”

“They’re wrong.” His mom smiles at him. “Don’t worry, honey. What matters is you. And you’re our Bug Boy and that’s a good thing, and we love you.”

“Hmm.”

Combeferre sits for awhile, lost in thought. He doesn’t know quite what to think, but he certainly does feel better. His parents are amazing. By the time he goes to bed that night, he can’t help feeling a little bit like things are looking up.

—

Combeferre’s mom takes him to the park again the next day. She seems to sense that he’s still feeling bad over everything that’s happening at school, and tries to provide as much comfort as she can. It’s nice– Combeferre will never say no to bug catching. But he’s also a little embarrassed. If he weren’t such a friendless loser, his mom wouldn’t have to go out of her way to cheer him up like this.

Still, he likes the park, and he’s happy to be free to collect bugs, so he roams around contentedly for quite awhile while his mom sits and watches and talks with the other adults. After awhile, he sits down on the softest part of the sand beside the playground and watches for beetles. He’s completely absorbed, so for a second, he doesn’t notice that someone has joined him until he hears a clear, high voice piping up to his left.

“What are you doing?”

“Huh?” Combeferre looks up, startled. Standing beside him is the little golden-haired angel he’d seen before, though alone this time, and apparently much less given to yelling obscenities. He tries smiling tentatively. “I’m looking for bugs.”

“Oh.” The little boy– Enjolras– plops himself down beside Combeferre. “I’m afraid of bugs,” he tells him seriously.

“Really?”

Enjolras nods, solemn in a way that only a child his age can be. “Uh-huh. They’re scary.”

Combeferre has heard this before, but he can’t just let it go, not when he can help elucidate the path of science and wisdom. He turns so he can look Enjolras in the eye.

“Bugs are nice. They won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them. Some of them look funny, but that’s because they were made that way. It’s not their fault!”

Enjolras seems to be considering this. Then, he reaches out a hesitant hand to poke at the sand. “They won’t bite?”

“They might,” Combeferre says quickly. “Be careful. They’re small, and you look big to them, so they might get scared. And then if they do, they might feel like they have to bite you so they can stay safe.”

“Oh.” Enjolras stops poking at the sand, but he doesn’t stand up or move away. Presently, he speaks again. “I get it. They’re little. So we have to be nice to them.”

Combeferre wonders if this statement has anything to do with his own personal experience, but he doesn’t ask. That seems rude. Instead, he smiles.

“My name is Combeferre.”

“I’m Enjolras.” Enjolras grabs his hand, seemingly in an imitation of a grown-up handshake. It’s just a little bit too tight. “I’m going to be six soon. I go to kindergarten. Do you go to school?”

“I’m in fourth grade,” Combeferre tells him, enjoying the way his eyes get wide.

“You’re big!”

“I mean, yeah, I’m bigger than you.”

Enjolras comes closer. “Can I tell you something?” he whispers. Then, without waiting for Combeferre to reply, he grabs his sleeve and holds it. “I’m going to tell you. I saw you!”

“You saw me?”

“Before. When I was here. I saw you.”

Combeferre has to think about this for a second. How can this little tyke be so observant? Busy as he’d been fending off Felix and the others, he’d still been aware enough of his surroundings to notice Combeferre. More amazing still, he’d been prudent enough not to alert anyone to his presence. He’s only five years old ( _almost six_ ), and he’s smarter than most of the people Combeferre’s met. Combeferre nods seriously at him– acuity like his deserves the utmost respect.

“I saw you, too.”

“I know. I saw you seeing me.”

Right. There’s that. Enjolras is still holding onto his sleeve, and Combeferre doesn’t attempt to shake him off, because he knows how bitter rejection can be. There’s no way he would push away this sweet little confiding angel, even if he is a little too close by most people’s standards. It’s not like Combeferre really minds, though. It’s been awhile since anyone but his parents has been close to him like this.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Have Felix and his friends been picking on you since then?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “They tried once. But I threw a rock at them. Then they went away.”

“A rock?”

“Yeah. I brought it from home.”

Combeferre isn’t sure what’s funnier; the thought of Felix and his friends running away from Enjolras the Mini Terror, or the fact that Enjolras was so prepared for trouble that he packed a literal rock and carried it with him to the park. Either way, he can feel himself falling under the child’s spell. 

“You’re cool,” he says. 

Enjolras beams. “You’re cool, too! I like you!”

That’s the first time Combeferre has heard that in awhile. Probably more than awhile, actually. He doesn’t remember the last time someone flat-out told him they liked him. He can feel himself preparing to do something silly and ill-thought-out, and it might turn out bad, but he’s going to do it anyway. He smiles at Enjolras again.

“Let’s be friends.”

“We’re friends!” Enjolras climbs onto Combeferre’s lap and throws his arms around him. He doesn’t quite make it all the way around and he ends up smooshing his face into the front of his shirt, but he seems happy, because he wiggles around and makes a little sing-song sound. “Yay, we’re friends now!”

Combeferre isn’t sure what the protocol is here, because it’s all new territory, but before he can do anything, there’s a footfall behind them, and the rustle of a stiff linen pantsuit, and “Enjolras! Are you bothering the poor boy?”

Enjolras looks up, not at all guiltily. “No! We’re friends!”

“Does he know that you’re friends?”

“Yeah! He said!”

“All right.” The speaker (who must be Enjolras’s mother, even based on physical appearance alone) smiles at Combeferre, kind amusement lighting her eyes. “I’m sorry if my son pounced on you, dear. He does tend to do that.”

Enjolras squeaks indignantly. “Mom! I can hear you!”

“It’s okay,” Combeferre tells her, a little shyly because she’s an adult, and he’s never talked to her before, and she looks like she could probably knock someone out with her briefcase. But she smiles again, and she’s not at all intimidating when she says,

“I’m glad. Now, is that your mom over on that bench? We’ve been having a nice chat.”

Combeferre looks over. His mom waves cheerfully at him. He’s not sure if he should confirm this, like _oh yes, that’s my mom, you can probably tell from the glasses and the stack of books_ , or just go on. However, he doesn’t have to decide, because Enjolras perks up, tugging on his mother’s hand.

“Mom! You talked to Combeferre’s mom?”

“I did, sweetie.”

“So you’re friends! Like me and Combeferre!”

His mom chuckles a little bit. “I guess so.”

“It’s fate. It’s a por– a _portent_.”

Now, Enjolras’s mom bursts into a hearty laugh that makes Combeferre’s chest feel warm. “Your vocabulary is entirely too big for a five-year-old,” she says, ruffling his lush golden curls and making him squeak. “I guess you’re your parents’ child after all.”

“What’s a portent?” Combeferre asks, because he needs to know. Enjolras’s mom winks at him.

“It depends, what’s a-portent to you?”

Combeferre blinks. “What?”

“Sorry. Mom joke.” Enjolras’s mom smiles, normally now. “A portent is an omen, or a sign for the future. It’s often used in a scary way, but it doesn’t have to be.”

“It’s good,” Enjolras pipes up. “Also, you’re good. Did you know that? I like you.”

Combeferre doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing that. He wants to hug himself, or bounce up and down, or something, but that wouldn’t be dignified. He contents himself with his best grown-up smile. 

“I like you, too, Enjolras.”

“Mom!” Enjolras pulls on his mom’s hand again. “Mom! Can Combeferre come over? I want him to come to our house!”

Enjolras’s mom manages to look stern even as she laughs. “Now, sweetie. What did we say about social skills?”

Enjolras puts his thumb up to his mouth to think, probably the remnants of a babyhood habit. “Umm. That I need to have some?”

“Well, yes. That would be good.” Enjolras’s mom mostly seems amused, though, and Combeferre can tell that she rules by love, not discipline. When she looks at him again, the kindness in her eyes is plain as anything. “Combeferre, I know you’re busy. Your mom has been telling me all about your research, which I think is very impressive for a boy your age. But if you do have time, and if you’d like, you’re welcome at our house whenever you want.”

“Really?”

Combeferre thinks his heart is about to fall out, because it’s beating so hard out of pure happiness and excitement. Is he really welcome at someone’s house? He’s never done that before, except when he’s gone to parties with his parents, and that’s boring and doesn’t count. And he’s always been so sad about it, because he desperately wants to have friends and visit their houses, but he’s never had the chance, being as he’s Bug Boy and all. But now…

Enjolras grabs hold of him again, pulling him up. His hand is surprisingly smooth and un-sticky. “You should come tomorrow!” he says, then, at a remonstrative look from his mom, “I mean, if you want to.”

“I want to,” Combeferre assures him. And he does, more than anything.

Enjolras beams at him. “Yay! I’m happy!”

He bounces up and down, pulling Combeferre into a dance with him, and Combeferre goes willingly, because he’s happy, too. For the first time in his life, he has a friend.

—

It’s easier after that. School is still awful, but Combeferre doesn’t find it impossible anymore, not when he can look forward to his precious bugs, and his books, and his friendship with Enjolras. 

At first, his parents had been rather bemused at his blossoming acquaintance with a five-year-old who still refuses to eat his vegetables and needs help tying his shoes, but after formally meeting Enjolras and talking with him, they’d realized what an intelligent little boy he really was, and had quickly accepted him into their hearts. Now, they ask about him every day. 

Combeferre thinks he’s perfectly happy, aside from dealing with his classmates, and really, that’s just his cross to bear. For the first time in his elementary-school life, he’s content. 

This period of happiness lasts for a few weeks, as Combeferre and Enjolras grow closer, and continue to learn more about each other. Combeferre realizes that it can be fun to study other things besides science– Enjolras is passionate about all the humanities (simplified though they have to be in order to make sense to him), and Enjolras gradually becomes enamored with the bugs that Combeferre shows him. When he comes over after school one day and brings Combeferre a box of beetles that he caught by himself, Combeferre thinks he’s never been so proud. 

And then, abruptly, everything changes.

Combeferre is playing in the park one day, setting up a box to keep bugs in, and wondering where Enjolras is. They were supposed to meet here, and usually, Enjolras (or rather, his mother) is never late. He’s about to go over to his mom and ask if he made a mistake, because she’ll definitely know, but at this moment, he hears the now-familiar pitter-patter of little feet, and the high-pitched screech that Enjolras considers a greeting.

“‘Ferre!”

Combeferre turns and straightens up to greet his little friend, but stops, dead-set in his tracks. Enjolras isn’t alone.

“Enjolras,” he falters. “This…”

Enjolras smiles brightly at him, not seeming to notice his distress. “This is Courfeyrac! He’s my friend! Now you should be friends, too!”

“Uh.”

Combeferre had never considered this scenario, not in a million years. It’s not that he objects to Enjolras having other friends, because Enjolras is a sweet little boy, and is probably popular, and Combeferre has never been the jealous type. And it’s not even that he objects to meeting Enjolras’s other friends, because they’re probably nice, like him. But this? _Courfeyrac_? He doesn’t know what to do, and judging by the awkward look on Courfeyrac’s face, he probably doesn’t either. 

“I, um,” he says.

Enjolras looks at one, then back at the other, completely puzzled. “Do you not like each other?”

Now this is a tricky problem. Combeferre has no idea how he’s supposed to get out of it. He’s never been very good in social situations even if he wants to be (obviously– his lack of friends is evidence of that), and right now, he’s not even sure he wants to be. But he doesn’t want to upset Enjolras, so he tries to smile politely.

“We’re in the same class.”

“Oh!” Enjolras clasps his hands together, delighted. “You’re already friends!”

“Well, not exactly–“

“I’m so happy!”

With another sweet smile, and a hug for each of them, Enjolras goes bouncing over to his mom, saying something about getting his juice box. Combeferre wants to tell him not to, but it’s already too late. Now, he’s left alone with Courfeyrac.

“So,” he says, trying to break the silence. “Um. We’re in the same class.”

Courfeyrac nods. “Yeah.”

Silence again. For someone who’s usually so loud, Courfeyrac is remarkably bad at keeping up the conversation. Combeferre sighs.

“Okay, listen. I know you don’t like me. And we don’t have to be friends if you don’t want to. But can we at least be nice, so we don’t make Enjolras sad?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, can we…”

“Wait!” Courfeyrac stands up straighter, realization dawning on his face. “Combeferre! I get it!”

“Uh, what?”

“I get it! It’s not that you don’t like me! It’s that you’re scared of me!”

Combeferre has never put it in these terms, but he guesses it’s not wrong. “I mean. Yeah?”

“But!” Courfeyrac comes closer and picks at his sleeve. “Combeferre! Don’t be scared of me! Because, I’m scared of _you_. So that would be dumb.”

“That’s a bad word,” Combeferre tells him, but then he realizes what Courfeyrac had said outside of it. “Wait. You’re scared of me?”

“Yeah! You’re so smart and cool, and you’re not even afraid of bugs! I wish I could be more like you.”

Combeferre thinks he needs to sit down. This is the weirdest day ever. “I, I don’t,” he starts to say.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, and it’s probably going to be embarrassing, but fortunately, Enjolras comes back at this moment, carrying a juice box and a bag of Goldfish crackers. 

“Hi,” he says. “Do you want some?”

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras all sit down together and dig into the bag of crackers. Enjolras eats most of them, because his heart may be in the right place, but he still doesn’t understand the concept of sharing very well. It’s not like Combeferre is really hungry anyway, though. He’s still too surprised by… everything, really. He could never have predicted this in a million years.

“So,” he says, still a little awkwardly, because it’s not like he can get over his shock so quickly, “Courfeyrac, what are you doing for your project?”

Courfeyrac scratches at his ear. “I don’t know. I wanted to make a collage with different pretty pictures that I like, but I think that would be hard.”

“What project?” Enjolras paws at Combeferre’s arm, fortunately with the hand that’s not holding the juice box. “‘Ferre! What project?”

“For our class,” Combeferre explains. “We have to make a ‘pictorial representation’ of the things in life that are most important to us. But I’m not sure what to do.”

“Pictorial representation,” Enjolras repeats slowly, trying out the new words. “‘Ferre, what’s that?”

“It means you make a picture that tells a story,” Combeferre tells him. “And we have to make it tell a story about ourselves.”

“Oh.” Enjolras sits for a second, deep in thought. Then, “‘Ferre! You should make bugs!”

“Make…? Enjolras, I don’t think that’s biologically possible.”

“No, no! Make bugs for your project! Make a picture of them!”

“That’s– huh.”

Combeferre thinks about it. Really, it’s not a bad idea at all. If people are intent on calling him Bug Boy, why not just own it? He’ll be Bug Boy– and he’ll love it. This will be his way of taking his life back from the rude and mean people around him.

“Enjolras,” he says. “You’re so smart. That’s an amazing idea.”

“I know!” Enjolras bounces in place, then turns to Courfeyrac and tugs on his shirtsleeve. “Hey, hey. Did you hear? ‘Ferre said I’m smart.”

“Because you are.”

Enjolras coos happily. He climbs onto Combeferre’s lap (something he’s been given to do since the beginning) and settles down, blissful as a birdie in its nest. 

“Tell me about your bugs,” he says.

Combeferre will never pass up a chance to talk about bugs. He clears his throat, ready to begin, but before he can, Courfeyrac wrinkles his freckled little nose.

“Wait, don’t. Bugs are scary.”

“No–” begins Combeferre, but Enjolras jumps in first.

“Courfeyrac! Bugs aren’t scary! I used to think so, too, but that was before I knew.” He puffs himself up with all the importance of a newly-wise kindergartener. “Bugs are nice! Sometimes they might look funny, but that’s okay. They were born like that. And they’re little, so we have to be nice to them.”

“But they’re scary.”

“No! They like you!”

Combeferre isn’t sure if this is true, strictly speaking, or even helpful, but he appreciates the passion in Enjolras’s little speech. “Enjolras has a point,” he says. “They won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.”

“They won’t?”

“No. They’re just shy.”

“Oh.” Courfeyrac sits back, leaning on his hands, and thinks about this for awhile. Combeferre and Enjolras watch him. Finally, he straightens up, eyes alight. “Wait, I think I get it! So, bugs are like you!”

Is this another joke? Is Courfeyrac teasing? Combeferre doesn’t know what to say. He wants to stand up and run back to his mom, but he can’t, because Enjolras is still sitting on him. So he tries to look as dignified as he can (it doesn’t work) and asks,

“Are you calling me Bug Boy?”

“No!” Courfeyrac scoots closer, all excitement now. “Listen, Combeferre! You’re like a bug. Because you don’t want to be mean to anybody! But you’re weird. So people don’t like you.”

Combeferre wonders if he’s going to cry. This is almost worse than what Felix and his friends do, though he’s not sure why that should be. Maybe it’s because Courfeyrac seems so genuine about what he’s saying. 

“I guess,” he says.

Enjolras seems to be pick up on his mood. He pouts at Courfeyrac, chubby baby cheeks puffed out in indignation. “Courfeyrac! That’s mean! You’re being mean to ‘Ferre!”

At least Enjolras is on his side. Combeferre wants to hug him. He doesn’t, though, feeling that it might detract from the strength of his put-down. Courfeyrac looks at them both, confused.

“How am I being mean?”

“You made him sad!”

“Why?”

“You said he’s weird!”

“But he is.”

Enjolras gets to his feet. Even though he’s standing up (and really, for a five-year-old, he has excellent posture), he’s about the same height as Courfeyrac, who’s still sitting down. But he doesn’t seem to care, and glares ferociously, pointing with one tiny finger. 

“Being mean is bad! You’re being bad!”

“I’m not being bad!”

Combeferre, now unencumbered, stands up, too. “I’m going to go,” he says. But he doesn’t even take one step before Enjolras is clinging to him, a little uncomfortably tight.

“No, ‘Ferre! Don’t leave!”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to stay here!”

Being the very young, very charming (and thusly, very spoiled) little boy that he is, Enjolras is used to getting his way whenever he wants something. And usually, Combeferre is more than happy to oblige. But right now, he’s really not feeling it.

“I don’t want to stay here, though,” he explains. “And you know, I can do what I want.”

Enjolras puts his thumb in his mouth and blinks at him with his big cerulean eyes. “Is that… _self determination_?”

Combeferre is officially done with this. “I have to go,” he says. “My mom wants me to go home and do my homework.”

Enjolras finally lets go, which should be a relief, but it’s not because he then sits down dejectedly and looks at the ground with the most absurdly adorable sad face that Combeferre has ever seen.

“Okay,” he says.

It would be enough to make Combeferre reconsider, but then Courfeyrac smiles and waves at him. “Bye, Combeferre! I’ll see you in class tomorrow!”

It’s a clear dismissal, almost rudely clear, and there’s no way Combeferre can stay after that, so he turns around and slowly walks away, perfectly aware that both Enjolras and Courfeyrac are watching him go and making no more move to stop him. Well, that’s fine. They can sit there and enjoy their _friendship_. Combeferre is probably better off by himself anyway.

—

Combeferre keeps to himself for the next few days. Enjolras tries to come over to his house, but Combeferre tells his mom not to let him in, and somehow, she doesn’t. It’s difficult, because Combeferre really does miss his little friend, but he has to stand firm. Enjolras has Courfeyrac now, and even if he didn’t, it would only be a matter of time before he got sick of Combeferre and went off to meet someone else. It’s really true; Combeferre is just a weird, unlovable bug. 

He doesn’t even go to the park. His mom, with her usual sixth sense, seems to know instinctively what’s wrong, and brings him to the library instead, where he can hide in the forest-tall stacks and not see anyone within twenty years of his own age. And it’s nice. Or at least, it’s not _not_ nice.

But, there are some things that are hard to tolerate alone, and unfortunately, school is one of them. Combeferre goes to class and stoically avoids eye contact with everyone, especially Courfeyrac, even though the other boy tries to catch his eye several times per day. If he holds himself apart from everyone preemptively, it won’t hurt so much when they exclude and bully him. Or at least, that’s the hypothesis.

It’s hell, though. Combeferre isn’t sure why he ever thought things were going to be okay. 

Everything comes to a head on Friday. Although not officially sanctioned by the school district, the teachers at Combeferre’s school usually let the students have a half-day, in preparation for the weekend. However, because of district policies, they aren’t allowed to let the students go home, and everyone ends up on the playground for about two hours before they can be released. Combeferre hates this because he’d rather be in class, but more importantly, because he hates having to socialize with the other kids. 

If only the library were open on Fridays. Then he could hide and read and not have to worry about this sort of thing.

On this particular day, some of the rowdier kids in the class have decided to play truth-or-dare. This is always awful, because it usually involves someone being dared to mess with Combeferre, maybe by stealing his glasses, or taking his books, or even, in one extremely humiliating case, being forced to dance a pas-de-deux with him. So far, it hasn’t happened yet, but that’s probably because Combeferre is hiding behind the slide-set with Weird Marius, who is actually a pretty good companion, in an awkward sort of way. When the other kids catch sight of him, though it’ll only a matter of time. 

Sure enough, while running around the playground and screaming out the words to “Jingle Bells, Batman Smells” (heaven knows why), Jean locks eyes with Combeferre and makes a beeline for him. Weird Marius, realizing what’s happening, makes a frightening squealing sound and books it out of there, and Combeferre doesn’t blame him, not in the slightest, but he also knows he’s done for now. He tries to stand up as tall as he can to meet the coming onslaught.

Jean, not appreciating his heroism, points at him dramatically, inviting the attention of all the others. “Hey, look! I found Bug Boy!”

So it’s this, now. Combeferre sighs.

“What do you want, Jean?”

“I want to play with you!”

“No, you don’t.”

“Ha!” Jean grabs at him (he barely manages to evade it), and gestures at his pack of snot-nosed sycophants. “Hey, guys! Come over here! I’m catching Bug Boy!”

“Hey!”

As a group, the other kids on the playground descend on Combeferre, either to help Jean, or to watch the action, because to them, there’s nothing more entertaining than watching Bug Boy get squashed. It reminds Combeferre of the gladiator fights in Rome. 

“Go away,” he says, but it’s half-hearted, because he knows nothing he does or says will help him now. 

Sure enough, Jean and the other kids roar with laughter. “Hey, Bug Boy wants us to go away!”

“Should we do it?”

“No way!”

They descend, thicker than a swarm of gnats. Combeferre wishes they were gnats. He could deal with that. This, though, this is the worst. He ducks his head, preparing to meet his doom. And then,

“Hey!”

For a second, everything stops. Combeferre dares to look up.

“What–?”

“You stupid jerks!”

Combeferre can’t believe his eyes. Is that Courfeyrac? He’s striding over, chest puffed out angrily and arms akimbo. He looks a bit like an angry Enjolras, actually, only taller, and less dimpled. Jean and the others must be surprised, too, because they don’t do anything, just stand there and watch with gaping mouths until Courfeyrac has reached their little gaggle.

“What are you doing?” he demands loudly, looking around until he seizes on a target. “Hey, Jean! What are you doing?”

“Messing with Bug Boy,” Jean says, though he seems a little bit unsure of himself now. “You wanna help, or–”

“You _troglodyte_!”

Courfeyrac rushes at Jean, arms outstretched. Jean is obviously too surprised to do anything, because he doesn’t try to move, and is bowled over by the sheer force of Courfeyrac’s wrath. Courfeyrac sits on him, and for some reason, starts slapping him on the forehead. 

“Stop being so mean to Combeferre! He never did anything to you. I’m going to tell on you, and you’re going to be sorry!”

“But Courfeyrac,” ventures one of the other kids. “Why do you care?”

Courfeyrac looks up, glaring. “Because he’s my friend!”

Combeferre feels all the strength slide right out of him. He sinks down to sit on the cement. Did Courfeyrac really just say that? He has to be dreaming. There’s no way.

“Courfeyrac,” he starts.

Courfeyrac looks at him with the biggest, sunniest grin. “Don’t worry! I’ll make it okay!” He turns back to Jean and starts slapping him again. “No more! I’m going to go to your house and tell your mom, and she’ll be so mad that she’ll ground you for the rest of your life! And then I’ll tell Ms. Fantine, and she’ll–”

“What will you tell me?”

For the second time in this brief, surreal period, everything stops. Everyone turns as a body to see their teacher, Ms. Fantine, standing behind Courfeyrac, hands on hips. And behind her, frowning into his mustache, is Principal Valjean. Courfeyrac jumps up.

“I…”

“He was hitting me,” interrupts Jean. “Him and Combeferre! They’re picking on me!”

Combeferre’s mouth drops open, because that’s so wrong, but he doesn’t get a chance to protest, because Ms. Fantine shakes her head, disappointed.

“Boys,” she says. “Would you please come with me?”

—

As it turns out, Ms. Fantine isn’t disappointed at all. She and Principal Valjean take Courfeyrac and Combeferre back to the office and sit them down to talk to them. At first, Combeferre is scared, because he’s never been in trouble in his life, but when Principal Valjean gives him a watermelon sucker and Ms. Fantine pats him on the head and asks him to tell his side of the story, his nerves disappear.

“I don’t want to tell on anyone,” he says. “But it wasn’t Courfeyrac’s fault.”

“It sure wasn’t,” breaks in Courfeyrac cheerfully and unrepentantly. “It was Jean. And some of the others.”

Ms. Fantine makes an encouraging noise. “Go on.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” says Courfeyrac. “But all the kids in our class are really mean to Combeferre. Well, except for Weird Marius, but he’s not mean to anybody. Everyone else is a jerk! They bully him! So really, Jean deserved it when I hit him.”

Ms. Fantine looks like she’s trying hard not to smile. “I see. And I definitely understand. Bullying is never okay. But you know, you shouldn’t hit people.”

“I don’t care,” says Courfeyrac mutinously. “I would hit him again. He’s mean.”

“All right.” Principal Valjean leans in, as if ready to tell a secret. “Listen, boys. I agree that you shouldn’t hit people. But bullying is bullying, and that’s never okay. So just this time, I’m not going to punish you. How about that?”

Combeferre feels like a giant weight has been lifted off his chest. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Really?”

“Really.”

“And, listen,” says Ms. Fantine. “Combeferre, I know it’s hard to be a kid. You have all the emotional pressures that adults do, but no one takes you seriously. And it’s hard. So if there’s anything I can do, I want you to tell me, okay?”

Combeferre nods, eyes wide. This is a better outcome than he’d ever thought was possible. “Thank you,” he says shyly. 

“Aww, kiddo. It’s my job.” Ms. Fantine ruffles his hair, smiling, before turning to Courfeyrac. “This goes for you, too, young man.”

“Yes!” Courfeyrac gives her a cheeky smile (and maybe he is almost as dimpled as Enjolras after all). “Hey, you’re great! I’m glad you’re my teacher!”

“I can check that one off the bucket list,” says Ms. Fantine, and Combeferre doesn’t really understand, but he’s too happy to care. He smiles and practically bounces all the way out of the office.

Once he’s in the hallway, though, his bubbly mood abruptly dissipates, replaced by trepidation. Now that he’s dealt with the grown-ups, it’s time for the _really_ hard part. He needs to deal with Courfeyrac.

“So,” he says, breaking into a silence that was just headed towards awkward. Courfeyrac nods at him.

“Yeah.”

“Did you mean it?”

There were probably about a hundred other ways that Combeferre could have phrased that, but somehow, it seems to do its job. Courfeyrac turns and full-on looks at him.

“Duh! I told you before. We’re friends now.”

Combeferre can’t help the little fluttering of happiness in his chest, like a butterfly just beginning to flap its wings for the first time. He’s coming out of his chrysalis, he can feel it, but still…

“You said I was weird, though.”

“You are. But it’s good.” Courfeyrac grabs him by the hand and shakes it up and down. “You know? You’re good-weird. You’re interesting and cool. And I like you.”

“But– but I’m Bug Boy.”

“Yeah! And I think that’s cool!”

Combeferre can’t help it. He smiles. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah!”

That’s it; indisputable proof. They’re friends now. Combeferre isn’t sure when he’s ever been so happy. This whole day has just been a roller coaster, none of it expected in the least, but he’s so glad things went the way they did. He might be about to dance or sing or something equally ridiculous, but then Courfeyrac tugs on his hand.

“Hey, hey. So will you stop ignoring Enjolras now? He thinks we both hate each other and him.”

Combeferre stops, dead-cold, and in his distress, utters the worst word he’s ever said in his short life.

“Oh, darn.”

—

Combeferre goes to Enjolras’s house right after school. His mom tries to hide her smile, but she’s clearly pleased; she doesn’t even fuss when he asks if he can stay for dinner there, too. 

When Courfeyrac’s mom comes driving up only a second behind them, she and Combeferre’s mom quickly make friends, and they walk in together while Combeferre and Courfeyrac sit on the doorstep and whisper conspiratorially about the best way to handle things. They want to make everything better so Enjolras will stop being sad, and hopefully, not hate them.

No matter how hard they think, though, they can’t come up with any master plans, and after a minute, their moms call them to come in, so they do, gripping onto each other for courage. They’re going to do their best, here, but they’re a little nervous.

Enjolras’s mom greets them at the door, smiling as kindly as always. “Hello, boys. Would you like some juice, or a snack?”

Bashfully, Combeferre and Courfeyrac shake their heads. They still feel a little awkward, and it shows. Fortunately, Enjolras’s mom takes this in stride. She murmurs a quick excuse, and goes up to the stairway landing.

“Enjolras, honey,” she calls. “Your friends are here! Do you want to come down?”

For a second, there’s nothing but silence. And then, a tousled little golden head pops out from around the edge of the bedroom door. 

“They’re here?”

“Yes, they’re here. They came to see you, so come down and say hi!”

Enjolras toddles down the stairs. His face is flushed, and his ridiculously long lashes are all tangled above his half-lidded eyes. He’s either been crying or napping, and both seem like reasonable options, but Combeferre really hopes it was the latter. He doesn’t want Enjolras to be sad.

“Hi,” he says.

Enjolras stands at the base of the stairs, just staring at him for a second. Then, he dashes over at lightning speed and flings his arms around him, almost knocking him over.

“‘Ferre! You’re here!”

Combeferre hugs him back, but before too long, he pulls away to point at Courfeyrac. “Look who’s with me.”

“Courfeyrac!”

Now Enjolras rushes at Courfeyrac, and this time, he really does send him flying. He doesn’t seem to care, just cuddles up next to him on the floor, unintentionally trapping him.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” he says.

“I’m happy, too, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac tells him. “But can I get up?”

“Oh, okay.”

Enjolras gets off Courfeyrac, but remains on the floor, sitting with his chubby little legs straight out in front of him. He flaps his hand at Combeferre.

“Sit down, too!”

“Why are we sitting on the floor?” Combeferre wants to know. “You have a lot of couches and stuff.”

“Because the floor is good.”

Combeferre can’t really argue with that. He sits down. Enjolras scoots over and cuddles up at his side, not quite sitting on him, but close. 

“I’m happy,” he says.

Combeferre smiles at him. He can’t help it. The little caterpillar is just too cute. “Why are you happy?”

“Because you’re here!”

“Aww, Enjolras~!”

“Hey, what about me?” Courfeyrac comes over and wedges his way in between them. “I’m here too! Are you happy that I’m here?”

“Yeah!”

Enjolras climbs onto his lap with surprising grace, not even elbowing him in the stomach when he jumps in surprise. There, he curls up happily and closes his eyes.

“Hey,” says Courfeyrac, poking at him lightly. “Hey, hey. Enjolras. Are you going to sleep?”

“No.”

“But you look like you’re going to sleep.”

“No. I’m not sleepy.”

Even Enjolras probably knows that this is a blatant lie. He nods off about five minutes later, knocked out and snoring gently against Courfeyrac’s chest. But even still, the smile never leaves his face; he’s utterly angelic with his mouth curved up in a little bow and his eyes curled shut, blissfully drifting in a happy, daisy-filled dreamland. 

Courfeyrac doesn’t have the heart to move him, and Combeferre doesn’t either, so they stay where they are and chat quietly over his head. Sure, both of them would rather have him awake and talking with them, but this is nice, too. It feels peaceful. Combeferre is pretty sure there’s no place he’d rather be– not even in the park with his bugs. 

And then, he realizes. This is what bugs must feel like. Here he is, safe with his mom and his friends, close and cozy and achingly content. Sure, there are dangers out there, and bigger people who might pose a threat to him. But they don’t matter. What matters is what he has right here– a bug’s nest made of happiness, unconditional support, and the strongest possible love.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://synchronysymphony.tumblr.com)


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